


Blank Slate

by Hopetohell



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caning, Impact Play, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26644408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He comes to you when he needs the bite of the cane to settle his thoughts. Now with 100% more porn!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	1. In the Open

It must be a difficult case for him to seek you out like this in daylight, for him to follow you to where you lounge against a mossy oak. But he finds you and sets a bundle at your feet and says “I need—“

And a moment later, almost shyly, “ _please_.”

 _That’s the ticket,_ you tell him, _arms around the tree, far as you can get._ He’s big, but the tree is bigger and in the end his arms are outstretched, bound about the tree with ropes, straining the shoulders of his suit jacket. And that won’t do at all; you want to see skin. The knife unnerves him, plants a tiny kernel of _what if_ in his mind, but as much as you would love to carve him up, to see that blade stained red and hear the trembling of his voice when he whispers _yes_ and _no_ and _I don’t know,_ today you simply split jacket and waistcoat and shirt up the back, pushing them down to hang in shreds at his elbows. 

And he _liked_ that suit, but what he likes even more is the way you press against his back, pushing him forward so bark and little bits of broken branches dig into his chest, so he rests his cheek against the bark and sags into the helplessness of his situation, his mind already starting to quiet. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. He turns his hands to test the ropes where they stretch around the tree; he finds himself stuck so there is nothing left to do but settle. 

Your hands come around to open his flies, to slide his trousers down and off his hips and for a moment he’s just _there,_ warm and solid under your hands, the rise and fall of his back slow and steady with his breath. You’ll give him what he needs, separate mind from body so his subconscious can tease out the answer to whatever riddle he’s facing today. 

_I wish, sometimes,_ you tell him, _that you’d come to me at other times too, not just when you’re struggling. Wish I could see you in the bloom of confidence as well._ But it is what it is. You take the cane and test it against your palm; he must be having difficulties because this one can do some real damage. He hears the _thwack_ and his muscles tense; you ask him _are you certain_ and wait for the answer you know is coming, a rich and rolling _yes_ straight from the core of him, breathless with anticipation. 

And you begin. 

Lightly at first, pinking his skin from his back to the tops of his thighs, til he shifts his legs unconsciously wider. Til you roll your shoulders and deliver the next blow, hard against his ass, laying a mark that’ll be a deep and lingering bruise. He groans with it, deep and low, and you nearly miss his guttural _more_ as he grits it into the tree. And if he can still speak, you aren’t going hard enough, so you aim the next blow over the first and it draws blood, pulls a noise from him that’s somewhere between a groan and a sob. _That’s better._

And so it goes, with your full weight behind your arm, til that whole beautiful expanse of skin is bruised and bloody, til the next blow has him rolling against the tree with a full-body sob, reflexive and unintended and honest as it pulls him through the doorway in his mind, as he steps across the threshold into clarity. 

_Ah,_ he says, and the sound is thick and wet, _so that’s it._ He’s far away and you drop the cane to rub your hands across his back, down to knead his ass, hands coated with soothing ointment, drawing him back to you. Slowly, so he doesn’t drop the thread. When the solution is fixed in his mind, you loose his hands and watch him button himself into his trousers; he winces where they slide over his wounds. His face is wet and red, lashes thick with tears, but he is steady, calm, now reaching for the cheese and bread you offer him from the bundle, now wrapping the blanket about his shoulders. _Thank you,_ he says, and there is something new in his expression, something that makes your breath catch, just for a moment. And then he turns away, and he is gone.


	2. Modern Solutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many ways to think through a problem. Sherlock Holmes fucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a porny little outtake.

There are many ways to concentrate, to think through a problem. Some people take long walks, others sit by a roaring fire, still others wade into the sea. Sherlock Holmes fucks. 

He pins you over the desk, broad hand covering the back of your neck, the hair at your nape woven through his fingers. He’s careless, mind elsewhere as he pistons his hips, as the edge of the desk bruises the tops of your thighs. He keeps one ear half open just in case but unless you beg mercy he will not waver, will not stop, his body acting on its own. He will bruise you inside and out. 

And you’ve witnessed him somehow so lost in himself that he’s reached completion without even noticing, sharp overstimulation driving him even harder. But even he has a refractory period and when he slips out there’s a half second of clear connection where he wrenches your head back to kiss you like he’s been pulled drowning from the sea. Then he drops to his knees behind you and licks and sucks every last drop back into himself, and his mind drifts away again, calculating and tying threads together, putting the pieces of the puzzle together as he takes you apart. 

You are a tool for him to use, and he takes such care of his things. When he returns to himself, when the solution drops fully-formed into his thoughts, he marks the way you shiver and shake under his touch, murmurs a number, an estimate of how completely you’ve come apart for him, and somehow he’s always right. He wraps you in his dressing-gown then, whispers the answer to his puzzle as he strokes softly over every inch of you, seeing you’re still whole, still here.


End file.
